


Look

by nartes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, In Universe, don't copy Gavin kiddos!, i don't know if i've rated it right but oh well, mention of violence, self destructive tendencies, this can take place wherever in canon i dont care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nartes/pseuds/nartes
Summary: Gavin never had the healthiest methods of dealing with his problems.





	Look

**Author's Note:**

> If reading about harmful self-destructive tendencies irks you in any way, then I don't recommend that you keep reading.

His name was Gavin Reed. 

He was born on the 7th of October, 2002.  

He was a private man, not sharing much about his personal life at work. The only time he could be open with himself was in his own home, and even then, he restricted his thoughts.  

He didn’t like throwing off his armour, making himself vulnerable. He didn’t like showing off his scars, the one on his nose was enough. He didn’t want to alarm anyone, make them concerned for health. He didn't want anyone asking about his personal problems. Keeping them to himself made him feel safe. 

   


He was always stressed. And agitated. So he retaliated in the only way he knew how. 

Violence. 

His gun was often aimed at the source of his problems. If not his gun, then fists.  

Alone? He smacked himself in the head until his sad face was a mess. 

He would scream. Yell. Shout. Until his lungs hurt and he had to gasp, taking a breath. It burned.  Always did.

   


His bathroom was a mess. The walls were adorned with holes, about the size of the average male’s fist. Sometimes they were only an inch wide. 

He could never find his razor, no matter how hard he tried. Even if he didn’t need to shave his scruff. 

The sound of glass breaking was bliss. But his fist never met the mirror; he was scared of broken glass. The way it distorted his features made him sick, an added insult to injury. 

Instead, he punched the face he saw in it. Again and again.  

He had no reason to stop until he tote a broken nose and then he could retire. 

He knew how to hide the bruises and heal the cuts.  

   


He frequently felt lost, like a ship at sea with no form of navigation. Constant storms raged on in his mind and his ship often capsized, losing all hope. There were wars; No Man's Land was an island. His contraband was anger and violence. Sometimes he lowered the flag, not wanting to draw attention, a plea for no aggro, a demand for silence.  

He liked the sound his gun made though.  

He cocked the hammer. Pulled the trigger. Reloaded. Rinse and repeat. He overdosed on friendly fire.

At the end of the day, the marks joined the countless others on the wall as his ears rang.  

 

He hated what he did. 

When he returned to clarity, he felt ashamed. Disgusted. Even though he only hit himself, he still hurt those around him. They would be disappointed if they knew. 

All the things he hated about himself, be they true or not, it didn’t matter when his face was battered black and blue with bruises.  

He didn’t know what abuse was. 

He didn’t know why he did it. 

He did know that he was a loser. 

An idiot, in denial, scar-faced, fucking waste of space.  

He had enough. 

He deserved to be damaged, he could manage being hurt. He could take physical pain, it’s the words that were savage.  They dug under his skin and made a nest, poisoning his thoughts.

His nerves were just ravaged; a small disturbance was all but certain to cause turbulence and of course they urged him to panic. 

He was scared of blood but never backed down from a brawl. He’d stand up for himself and what he believed in, never sat down on the wall. His fear turned to anger as he found a way to lash out.  He’d go toe to toe until he’s passed out on the floor. 

He’d throw punch after punch, laughing in the nosebleeds despite tears streaming down his face.  

One of them was going to hospital, that’s how raw he was.  

Bloodshot and puffy, his red eyes were emphasised by black bruises.  He avoided his reflection. 

He only ever truly harmed himself.  

 

 

So here he was. Gavin Reed, 5'9ft with matted brown hair soaked in blood and clinging to his forehead, hooked up to a monitor.  

Looks like he went a little too far this time.  

At least no one visited him. A least no one saw the state he was in.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're affected by self-harm, you are not alone and there is help out there for you. Here are some organisations who you can talk to: http://www.samaritans.org (UK) and http://www.selfinjury.com (USA). Many other countries have similar services that are a google search away. Stay safe.


End file.
